


When Everything Came Crashing Down

by dapperghost



Category: Homestuck
Genre: BS, Bleh, Drugs, Gen, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Trans Dave, Wow, although its more implied?, attempted suicide, graphic depictions of suicide, idk - Freeform, like srsly, mentions of bullying, mentions of slurs, probably super ooc, selfharm, so fuckin stupid, so many triggers, suicide by drugs?, this is just selfindulgent fucked up bs tbh, transgender character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 03:45:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4332612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dapperghost/pseuds/dapperghost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave is tired. He's tired of the stress, the frustration, everything. He's done. Finito. And he's finally given up. He's standing here, poised at the edge, the edge of the moment when everything came crashing down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Everything Came Crashing Down

**Author's Note:**

> I...I honestly have no excuse for this. It's literally just self-indulgent feelsy bullshit and I'm trash. I'm so so sorry. Anyways though enjoy the thoughts coming from my messed up mind. 
> 
> This is set in a non-game AU. Also it contains major warnings for suicide and selfharm, so like, if you're triggered by that stuff you probably shouldn't read this. It's pretty damn prominent. Like it's mentioned a ton, especially as the story progresses.

Let's start with the basics here. Your name is Dave Strider. You are 17 years old. You have an affinity for making shitty comics and collecting dead things and photography and rapping. You have a very successful webcomic and you like to think you're the hottest shit since sliced bread. Well, you like to pretend you think that.

In honesty, you are definitely the opposite of cool. And you know you are. Way deep down a part of you has always known this. You were never cool (never happy).  You keep the stoic expression up for show (because you can't smile). You pretend like you have all the swagger to last for years, but honestly you have nothing (and you never did). 

You have no friends in close proximity, no social life, heck nowadays its a wonder if you even leave the apartment for anything other than school. Which was currently out at the moment, and allowed you to be as unproductive as your little heart wished. And damn did it wish to be unproductive. It's like it already decided you are definitely going to go nowhere in life, and is just telling you to give up now (and god do you want to). 

It's 3 AM and here you are, still awake. Your comic screams for updating, but hell if you even wanna get out of bed right now, let alone hop on your shitty ass computer to get to work on it. You have photographs that still need developing (you do it the old fashioned way, for the irony). You have so many things you could be doing, but none are getting done. 

God you're tired. You sleep so much and so little and you're so fuckin tired and you hate it all so much. You hate every last inch of all of it. You hate the exhaustion, the anxiety, the frustration, the complete and utter doneness with it all (with yourself). 

You trace idly at the scars that litter your arms, enjoying the nice pattern they make and longing to add more. You want to add more because even with you being tired, it all still hurts. You hurt. Not physically. No. You can handle physical pain. It hurts in your soul and you're so sick of that feeling. 

And yet you know even adding more won't help. You've gone beyond that. It isn't enough anymore (it never was). You've tried so many things but nothing is enough and you're done. Even if it was, you can't drag yourself out of bed to pull out the little toy doctor's kit that hides your precious blades. The irony in that alone is wonderful, but even that is hard to enjoy anymore. 

You feel so...so goddamn alone as you think. Your brother is never around. Always out or something. Hell if you care (but you do, god you care and wish he was here). When he is its only for a few hours, maybe with a strife here or there. He doesn't even ask why you wear long sleeves to some shitty battle in 100 degree Texas weather (he doesn't care). 

All your friends are too far away, off in another state, another country, or even just too many cities off. And the ones that live close, aren't close. You don't even trust them half the time (you were so bad at trusting). The closest ones, the ones you can trust, live so far off. Never around when you need them the most. Even then you couldn't bear to ask for help (how pathetic). 

You look down at yourself, curled up here in your bed as you are. God you hate yourself. You hate your body. Your curves. Your voice. You hate your eyes, your actions. Hell just your very existence is too much for you. You can't stand it. 

And neither can the students at your school. Living in the not so friendly parts of Texas just added to your pain. Students and teachers alike treated you like a freak, an abomination. Acted like you were trying to be something you're not (but you are). Slurs thrown at you here and there, sometimes in hushed whispers, or loudly while you took the punches they recieved (you could fight back, but you didn't want to. you deserved it. you deserved the pain.). Even online, burning words shoved in your face from blogs you didn't even know. They didn't matter (nothing mattered). 

You did well in school sure, and maybe if you honestly cared about the things they taught, you could go somewhere. But you didn't. Your dreams were unachievable, and even if you got there it would be useless. You wanted a job in the arts, but thoughts of money and future and bills and medical expenses for all the things you want (all the things you need) dashed those dreams. Your future seemed certain, set in stone, and terrifying. And you didn't want that (you never did). 

You already had a note written out. Well...typed out. Written letters were a thing of the past, and your personal blog would make sure people knew what went down. It was easier this way. And nobody would find it til after the fact, having a set time to post. You read it over again, debating whether or not today would be the day. 

As you read, you think about the few friends you do have. Rose. You think of Rose first. The Rose who lived states away, up in New York. You think how you spilled your feelings to her time and time again, always with the promise she would keep that safe. Keep the vulnerable side hidden from anyone else. She would protect your coolness and awesome heroic glory of chill forever. Keep you up as the fake legend you loved pretending to be. She was your best friend, honestly, and the person you trusted the most of them all. And yet. It wasn't enough. Even as her words flashed in your mind, the words pleading to tell her before you tried anything, it wasn't enough. The pain was too much, and she had her own problems. The sharing was mutual and you worried for her just as much. And yet she was okay now. And you...you weren't. 

You thought of John. Of his dorky smile in all those video calls and the pain in your heart as you constantly wished you could tell him you felt. You thought of all your wonderfully entertaining conversations, as well as the heartfelt ones you had. You thought of the blue text and shaggy black hair. Eyes that you wished you could see in person always and someone you wished you could hug forever. He lived far off too, in Washington, but at least you had gotten to meet him that one wondrous time in person. You missed that.  You missed him, even as you knew you could talk to him tomorrow online. It wasn't enough (nothings enough you greedy shit).

You sigh, scrolling through tumblr once more, tired as thoughts and pain and frustration swirl through your mind like some fucked up hurricane party. All the hurricanes decided to have a party in your mind and mess it all up (it was always a mess). Smashin shit and dancing and having a good, fun time. Although it isn't a fun time for you.

You sigh, glancing at the antidepressant bottle that was supposed to "help" you. You stopped taking it months ago. It didn't work (nothing worked). But it's almost full and you can't help but wonder how many it would take to kill you (you know how many. you looked it up yourself). 

You sigh, as your thoughts drift again. A part of you yells to tell Rose. To tell John. To tell someone. But the rest of you says no. They're sleeping. Plus, even if they weren't they don't need to deal with your bullshit (they don't need to deal with you). 

You say fuck it to yourself as you force yourself to crawl out of the bed, holding tightly to your phone as you snag the bottle of pills.  You would do this in your room, in your bed, but it isn't safe. Not private enough. You sneak to the kitchen first, to grab a jug of apple juice (it is your last drink after all). You then walk to the bathroom (more like trudge), and shut the door, locking it. It's the only place Bro would never bother you (if he cared enough to be home). You stare at the bottle, reading the warnings over as you sit on the edge of the tub.

 

You then look at your phone. You change the date for the scheduled posting of your "note" to later tomorrow. Or today? Whatever it doesn't matter. You'll be dead by then anyways. Then you think for a moment. She's asleep. She won't notice until its too late. So is he, but you just...she needs to know first. Plus looking at that blue name might just change your mind.

You pull up pesterchum, and her username. 

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] \--

TG: im sorry

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] \--

That one phrase is all you type before closing it again, turning off your phone. You then open the bottle of pills. It's now or never Strider. You pour a few out into your hand, just kinda looking at them.

You unscrew the cap on the apple juice, before downing the handful of pills and drinking some juice to wash it down. You do the same thing again, repeating the process until most of the bottle is gone (just to be sure). You then kinda just sit there, waiting for it to take effect. 

Sure maybe overdosing was a really hella painful way to go out. You knew all about the effects from your research. But honestly there really wasn't any other option. Falling from the top of your building would draw too much attention. There were no guns in the house, or a place to tie a noose. Sure you could go for the whole ironic seppuku shit and stab yourself with a sword, but you didn't really want the flashing nightmares of your friends getting stabbed with swords replayed by you. So pills were the way to go. 

You started to feel the symptoms, curling up on the floor and holding back any vomit that wished to come up. You suffered through, there on the bathroom floor for...what felt like hours. You thought about it all. Your life. Your existence. Even this moment. This current moment, in when it all came crashing down. You could feel your body shutting down, after those hours, and your eyes closed finally, the last sight seen a crappy, flickering bathroom light. 

**Author's Note:**

> by the way, my tumblr url is http://actualdavesprite.tumblr.com if yall wanna follow me


End file.
